Battle Scars
by Langus
Summary: Octavia's trained hard to become one of them, but the Grounders will never accept her without a few battle scars. A Linctavia drabble. It's a bit of angst with a dash of fluff.


_Battle Scars_

The firelight bathed his skin in hues of amber and honey-gold as he lay stretched out on the furs next to her. Her hands skimmed lightly over the muscles of his shoulders, tracing their lines and valleys with a careful touch. He held such strength in those arms, such power, that it seemed impossible he could be as gentle with her as he was. Her hands dipped lower, playfully brushing over his ribs. The muscles there twitched and he pulled in a slow, languorous breath.

"Careful, that tickles."

Placing an apologetic kiss against the skin of his shoulder, she continued her exploration. Her fingertips eventually ghosted over the rows of carefully marked scars on his left shoulder blade and stopped.

"What are these from?"

He opened his eyes slowly, all lingering drowsiness gone.

"Each mark represents a kill," he answered her, his tone even.

He'd spoken the truth so matter-of-factly there was little she could do at first but blink and resist the urge to count them. He began to sit up and she knew what he must be thinking. That the scars repulsed her, that with so much evidence in front of her eyes she could no longer deny the monster that he was.

She stopped him with a gentle hand against his back, and he slowly lowered back onto their bed.

"Do all of your people have such scars?"

"Yes."

Her eyes studied the scars in detail now. They were small, shaped like a large grain of rice, and arranged in rows of six. Some rows were straighter and neater than others, she noticed, as though they'd been carved immediately after a particular battle or a war. With the violence she'd witnessed in this place, it was any wonder he didn't have dozens more.

"Lincoln," she said carefully, "I need you to give me scars like these."

He sat up then, his features drawn into a frown.

"If all of your people have scars like this, they'll never believe I'm one of them if I don't have some too."

He'd been teaching her about his people for weeks now in an effort to ease her transition into grounder life. His people were reclusive, xenophobic and paranoid. They didn't tolerate outsiders, certainly not ones that came from the sky. If she was to have any hope of passing as a grounder she'd need to be as convincing as possible.

Lincoln had taught her about his peoples' wars, their language, and their various groups and colonies. He'd taught her the ways of his people as well - how to hunt and fight, how to move silently through the forest and go in for the kill. She felt stronger and more powerful than she ever had before, but it wasn't enough. If she was going to pass as one of them, if she was going to _be_ one of them, she needed to commit fully.

Lincoln did not look pleased with this development. He slid into his pants and hastily tied them up before getting to his feet. He paced a few steps back and forth and then stopped with his back to her. The firelight danced across his skin, making his scars appear to move and shift about.

"You know I'm right," she pressed.

"That doesn't mean I have to like it," he countered, turning to face her. "Octavia, there's no going back if we do this."

"I know," she assured him with a patient look. "There was no going back the moment I met you."

A reluctant smile pulled at his lips and he dropped to his knees next to her. He pulled her to him for a slow, lingering kiss that left her head swimming and her lips wanting more.

"We don't have to do this now," he said sincerely, his eyes searching hers as he pulled away. If he was looking for any signs of doubt, he found none.

"I want to," she insisted, holding his gaze until he exhaled a quiet sigh and nodded in agreement.

She lay down on her stomach atop their bed. His hands were warm on her skin and their touch gentle as he brushed her long dark hair off to one side and bent to kiss her shoulder. He reached over her to retrieve a knife from his jacket and she pulled in a long slow breath to calm her racing heart.

"How many?" he asked quietly and she opened her eyes.

"One."

She could hear the unspoken question in his silence and answered, "It was during the fight with the grounders. A grounder was trying to kill Bellamy, so I killed him with your sword."

Lincoln was quiet for a long moment. "I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner," he said sincerely and the pang of regret in his tone was clear.

"But you did find me," she reminded him and listened as he breathed a quiet sigh. "I don't regret it, Lincoln. Any of it."

"Someday you may."

"Or I might know it was the best decision I ever made."

She sat up and kissed him to banish his insecurities and doubts. She knew exactly what he was asking and she wanted to be just as clear with her answer. How could she regret him when he was the best thing that had ever happened to her? She touched her forehead to his and was relieved to see a shy smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Alright," she said encouragingly and returned to her stomach with her heart still racing. "I'm ready."


End file.
